


batibat

by Hugabug



Category: Heneral Luna (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Gen, Horror, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Philippine mythology, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 22:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5982955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hugabug/pseuds/Hugabug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What is she?"</p><p>"Bad dreams."</p><p>"Does she visit you every night?"</p><p>"Only when I close my eyes."</p><p>"Then sleep."</p>
            </blockquote>





	batibat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [p_diyos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/p_diyos/gifts).



> based on the short film "The Last Time I Saw Richard" by Nicholas Verso-- I suggest watching it. It's worth the watch.

“Do you want to tell me?”

He laughs, a quick huff of bitter breath. “Not really.”

“Alright then.”

* * *

 

It starts as so:

He’s walking. Somewhere in the forest. It’s hot and humid and the sun is beating down on his head until suddenly, it isn’t.

He falls into... something. Then he wakes up.

* * *

 

He cleans the blade, gently runs it under hot water, cleanses it of fresh blood as lovingly as he would a new born babe.

Then, he wraps it in tissue and hides it in one of the ratty soles of his favorite sneakers. 

For future use.

* * *

 

“Your fathers are worried about you.”

He laughs again, this time a fully belly guffaw.

“W-Why?” he giggles through tears in his eyes.

“Because they care about you.”

“If they cared about me I wouldn’t be here.”

* * *

 

“You’re going to be getting a new room mate, isn’t that great?”

He looks up, looks at the cheery face pulled tight over a usually bored scowl. He smiles back, just as fake.

“Oh golly oh gee.” he sing-songs, swinging his arms jovially just for good measure.

The nurse’s lips stretch farther, making an effort. He rolls his eyes.

“Whatever.” he says, turning away. “As long as he isn’t a nut.”

The nurse leaves, but not without muttering under her breath; _nobody is nuttier than you_.

He pretends not to hear.

* * *

 

“You know, Goyong, company will do you good.”

Goyong stops laughing.

“No.” he says. “Being home will do me good.”

The scabs on his arms sting, but he resists the urge to scratch.

Dr. Isabel sighs.

“I’m sorry, Goyong.” she says, adjusting her glasses. “But you can’t go home. Not just yet.”

* * *

 

“Hey, you’re the new one, right?” he says when he enters his room to find another boy in it, scrambling to put his messy suit case in order on the bed right next to Goyong’s.

The boy says nothing, doesn’t even look up. Just adjusts his earphones and takes out a sketch pad.

Goyog scowls. He hates being ignored.

“ _Hey_.” he calls out once more, taking another step in. “You’re Rusca, right? My new room mate?”

Here, the boy, Rusca, looks up. Stares. And stares.

Goyong smirks, reveling in the attention. “So... what’re you listening to?”

He gets no reply.

“... Metal? Rock?”

Rusca raises an eyebrow. Goyong frowns. Looks another way. Looks at the sketch pad.

“... You draw?” he asks.

The sketch pad disappears into their shared bed-side table and Goyong scoffs, grabbing his basketball.

“Whatever.”

* * *

 

He feels free on the covered court of the Mandaluyong clinic, not suffocated and choked compared to the open court back in his high school. It’s ironic, really. But he doesn’t care.

He dribbles. He shoots. He scores.

He whoops.

“ _And the crowd goes_ **wild**!” He cheers. “ _Aaaaahhhhh! Aaaaahhhh!_ ”

He grins, wide and unbridled, and he hugs the ball to his chest.

Silence. The cheering stops. He drops the ball.

And he leaves it on the court.

* * *

 

“They confiscated all the sharp objects in your room yet you have a fresh cut on you everyday.”

Goyong shrugs. “My nails are sharp.”

“Hm.”

“You don’t believe me, doktora?”

Dr. Isabel smiles, wanly. “Forgive me if I don’t, hijo.”

Goyong smirks.

* * *

 

“Switch the light off.”

The lamp stays on.

“Hey, you deaf? I said _off the lights_.”

No reply, only the constant scratch of art charcoal on cream paper. The occasional scrape of fingers against smudged lines.

Goyong scowls and reaches over. Clicks the lamp off.

Sighs in relief. Closes his eyes.

... It blinks on again.

Rusca looks at him, an eyebrow raised. Then, he adjusts his earphones and goes back to drawing.

Goyong huffs.

“Bitch.” he hisses, knocking the lamp off the stand.

It unplugs, plunges the room into pitch black. And Rusca pauses.

“Fucking go to sleep.” Goyong says, turning his back to him and closing his eyes.

* * *

 

Again, it starts like so:

He’s walking through a forest. It’s humid, it’s hot, the sun filtering through the leaves beats down on him like an angry drum, and he’s wearing his Itay’s old army jacket, the sweat trailing down the length of his neck and down his spine.

He walks, though he doesn’t know exactly where. He just does.

Then he falls into pitch black.

And tiny hands take hold of his.

* * *

 

Goyong wakes up with a gasp. Shivers. Presses the heels of his palms against his eyes.

They come away wet.

“You were talking”

Goyong jumps, shuffles around.

Rusca looks at him, an eyebrow raised, earphones still in his ears. “You were talking. In your sleep.”

The clock on their shared bedside reads 3.17 AM. Goyong squints at it, then at his room mate.

“What... Rusca?”

Rusca looks at him flatly, shrugs.

“Rusca’s my last name.” he says, simply. “I go by Ed.”

Goyong blinks. “What?”

“Rusca’s my last name. Ed. People should call me Ed.”

Rusca looks at him one last time, an eyebrow slightly raised, before once again turning away. He doesn’t make a move to lie down or to lean back. He just sits, back ram-rod straight, and stares at the far wall, fiddling with his hands.

Goyong looks at them. They’re clean, newly washed, and the sketch pad is no where to be found, but the bed sheets, from the very top to the very bottom are covered with fingerprints and hand marks.

“You’ve smudged the bed.” Goyong lamely points out.

Rus-- _Ed_  looks down. Stares again. Doesn’t look up.

“I didn’t do that.”

* * *

 

“Do you want to tell me how the dream goes, now?”

Goyong swallows. “No. Not really.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” he says, carding a hand through his hair. It’s shaking. “I don’t like going back there. I don’t like the hole.”

Dr. Isabel looks at him curiously. Nods.

“Alright. You’re dismissed.”

* * *

 

He runs to the bathroom. Slams the cubicle door shut. The blade in his shoe digs a bit into the tender sole of his foot and he takes it out.

But before he could make yet another clean, red cut across the bumpy plane of his left forearm, the door opens and Ed pauses in its entry way, surprised.

Goyong shoves him back out.

“ _Get out!_ ” he shouts, slams the door shut again. Presses his hands to his ears. “ _Go. Away._ ”

Ed doesn’t go away. He stays, the tips of his sneakers just so visible under the plastic door.

“I’m sorry.” he says. “I didn’t know you were in there.”

Goyong breathes, feels the muscles in his chest constrict. Feels the burn in his throat.

“Goyong.” Ed says again. “You dropped it.”

 _Schlick_  goes thin metal over shiny bathroom tiles. Goyong watches as the blade stops at his feet and looks up at him.

It had never occurred to him just how _tiny_  it really was.

“Argh!” he cries, getting up and shoving the door open, barreling past a side-stepping Ed. “ _What. Ever._ ”

* * *

 

He runs to their room and out of spite, he digs through their bed side table and pulls Ed’s sketch book out.

The first few drawings were still lifes with titles underneath. _Adobo on the table._   _Suman for merienda_. _Ensaymada at kape_. All in charcoal, all done with an artful hand. Despite being black and white, somehow they glowed with a sunny sort of atmosphere. They were made in happier times. In happier places.

The latest ones were not.

 _Batibat_ the titles on the bottom read.

A fat woman. Long, stringy hair. Crooked teeth. Crouched on all fours. Again and again and again.

She looks vile.

“She is.”

Goyong looks up. Ed is in the doorway again, looking at him with eyes resigned and tired and weary.

Goyong closes the pad.

Ed places the blade on his bed.

“I’m hungry.” he announces. Then leaves.

Goyong follows almost immediately.

* * *

 

They go to the court and they play together, dribbling and dodging and tossing, nudging each other as they pass the ball between them.

Ed smiles for majority of the time, and Goyong finds that he likes it.

“He dribbles, he goes for the shot, he _scores_!” Ed cheers, whooping when Goyong makes the point. “The crowd goes _nuts_! _Aaaaaaahhhh! Aaaaaahhhhh!_ ”

Goyong laughs, light and airy, and chases after the ball when it bounces off court.

* * *

 

They play sungka under the yellow light of their emergency torch and Ed is winning, even when he’s yawning every other minute.

“You need to sleep, you know?” Goyong says.

Ed pauses mid-yawn. Blinks. Stares.

Goyong stares back and swings the torch light from their sungka block to their bed side table. From the drawer he retrieves Ed’s sketch pad. Opens it up to the last drawing.

“What is she?” he asks, shining the light on the picture.

Ed cringes. “Bad dreams.”

“Does she visit you every night?”

“Yes.”

“Without fail?”

“Only when I close my eyes.”

Goyong tosses the sketch pad on the floor. “Then sleep.”

“What?” Ed frowns. “Why?”

“I want to see.”

Ed’s frown deepens. “She’ll get to me.”

Goyong shakes his head. “No she won’t.”

“Promise?”

Goyong smiles. “I promise.”

* * *

 

It happens like this:

Ed falls asleep at 11.11 PM.

Goyong follows for a few minutes at 3.47 AM.

He dreams again. He’s walking and he’s sweating. Then he’s in a hole. And he’s calling out.

“ _Itay_!” he screams. “ _Papa_!”

A voice answers back. “Kuya.”

He shakes. Feels the hands around his. He tries to grab them.

They slip away.

“No. _Wait_ \--”

“Kuya.”

“ _Nong_ \--”

“ _Kuya_.”

“Please. I’m _sorry_ \--”

“Kuya, _wake up_.”

Goyong wakes up. 3.58 AM.

And he sees her.

* * *

 

She’s smaller than he imagined, but she’s still as horrendous as Ed’s drawing had depicted. A fat, bulbous belly, long stringy hair, two yellow-white eyes staring out of a dark hollow face. She’s looking at Goyong but she’s crouched on Ed, seated comfortably on his chest.

Ed is rasping.

Goyong acts fast, throws off his blankets and gets on his feet, trying to switch the torch back on. When it refuses to, he yanks open the curtains and the moonlight comes streaming in.

The thing hisses, showing flat, yellow teeth.

Goyong throws the torch at her. She leaps away. 

And disappears into the dark just as the clock strikes 4.00 AM.

* * *

 

“Do you blame yourself for what happened to your brother?”

"...”

“Let me rephrase the question... Was it your fault your brother died?”

Goyong closes his hand into a fist. “ _No_.”

Dr. Isabel smiles cooly, evenly. “Alright.” she says, writing something on her clip board. “You may go.”

* * *

 

Goyong stares at the dark smudges on Ed’s previously pristine white sheets. “I’m sorry.”

“No. It’s alright.”

“No. It’s not. I _promised_ \--”

Ed takes hold of his hand. Smiles.

“It’s ok, Goyong.” he says. “Really. It is.”

* * *

 

They play basketball again that day. Ed is better at it, keeps up with Goyong faster than he did yesterday.

He dribbles, shoots, and scores this time.

Goyong cheers and secretly loves it when Ed grins wide.

* * *

 

They both go to sleep without thinking, at precisely 11.11 PM.

Goyong dreams again. Of the forest, of the heat, of the hole.

But this time, when little hands hold his he latches on and doesn’t let go.

“ _Wake up._ ” his brother tells him.

Goyong obeys.

* * *

 

There are two of them now, both smaller than the last but still just as bulbous, just as hideous, almost child-like in the way they moved.

Goyong throws the basketball at them and they scurry away from him, hissing with flat, yellow teeth and clinging to the wall with gnarled fingers and dirty finger nails. They don’t disappear, though.

Instead, they huddle in a dark corner of the ceiling and they stare.

Goyong grabs the basketball again and prepares to throw it.

“ _Get_.” he tells them. “ _Go. Away_.”

They don’t move.

Ed coughs.

Goyong looks back at him, carefully dividing his vision between his friend and the shadows in the corner, and walks backward toward the bed, careful to keep the basketball ready in case they attacked again.

They continue to stare. And Goyong feels unnerved.

Ed groans.

“No, no, _sshhh_.” Goyong soothes, lifting up the end of Ed’s blanket and slipping under. “Shhh, Ed, I got you. I got you--”

He wraps his free arm around Ed’s middle. Gently tucks his head underneath his chin. Keeps the basketball at ready.

Ed whimpers. Finds and clutches Goyong’s hand in his.

“ _Stay_.” he breathes, still asleep.

Goyong tears his eyes away from the monsters, and kisses Ed’s forehead.

“I’m not going anywhere.” he says.

Ed calms down, and when Goyong looks back up, the shadows are gone.

* * *

 

Goyong wakes up to fingers gently tracing his scars.

He sleepily blinks his eyes open, watches artist hands gently trace each raised, pink grove. Each faded white tissue.

Ed meets his gaze after a few minutes. Smiles.

Goyong returns it. “Good morning.”

Before an answer could be properly given, however, the door clicks open and a nurse comes in.

Ed jumps out of bed. But it’s already too late.

“Oh.” the nurse says, looking at them, wide eyed. Then, she walks out.

Goyong laughs, sits up.

“ _Oh._ ” he mimicks, giggling. “Did you see the look on her--”

Ed doesn’t answer. Just looks at Goyong, then looks away.

Goyong swallows. “Hey.” he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to stand. “... Are we ok?”

Ed nods. Wraps his arms around himself.

“You’re ok.” is all he says.

Somehow, those words send the room’s temperature plummeting down.

* * *

 

“Time to go back home.”

Goyong stops, grips the sides of his chair. “What?”

“It’s time to go home.” Dr. Isabel says, smiling wide and a tad bit giddy. “You’ve come far, Goyong. Your progress over the past few months is astounding. You can go back home.”

He sits back, breathes. The ruined skin on his left forearm buzzes with excitement.

He scratches it.

“Wait.” he says, frowning. “What about Ed?”

“What about him?”

Goyong stops scratching and he frowns even more. “Is he going too?”

Dr. Isabel’s smile slips just a little, caught off guard. “No.” she says. “No. Eduardo is staying here.”

* * *

 

He runs to their room. Looks for his blade.

It’s no where to be found.

* * *

 

Goyong shakes his head. “No. I can’t. Ed _needs_ me.”

“Eduardo Rusca’s condition is extremely volatile and severe, Goyong, I don’t think he’ll be leaving anytime soon--”

“ _But he needs me_.”

* * *

 

“You really shouldn’t, you know.”

Goyong looks up from his search, meets Ed’s gaze. Sees the earphones back in his ears and his sketchpad tucked under his arm.

The scars on his arm sting.

Goyong swallows. “I promised you.”

Ed smiles, tired, weary, and oh so _resigned_.

“I know.”

* * *

 

“Listen, if this is about--”

“Oh, no, no.” Dr. Isabel shakes her head. “It has nothing to do with that at all.”

“Then why--”

“Goyong, I understand that you and Eduardo are close. But I hope you understand as well that he needs to stay here for his own good.”

Goyong grips the sides of his chair again. His knuckles turn white.

“I can help him.”

Dr. Isabel smiles, thin and forced. “Sure you can, hijo.” she says, lacing her fingers together. “But I can help him more.”

* * *

 

Goyong stays in Ed’s bed that night and they both fall asleep at 11.11 PM, their fingers intertwined and Ed’s free hand placed gently on Goyong’s forearm.

They wake up at 7.43 AM. 

Both their sheets are still clean, not a black smudge in sight, and Ed smiles at Goyong when he notices.

Goyong struggles to return it.

* * *

 

“You’re going to leave your basket ball?”

Goyong picks the ball off the floor, offers it to Ed.

“They don’t like it.” he informs him.

Ed laughs and takes it. “Thank you.”

* * *

 

Dr. Isabel is waiting by the car, standing right next to his parents.

Goyong pauses, on the borderline between the clinic and the rest of the world. His suitcase feels heavy. The scars on his arm itch, yearning for a touch only an artist’s charcoaled hands could give.

He looks over his shoulder at the doorway.

Ed waves at him, still smiling. Earphones in his ears, basketball tucked under his arm, sketchpad no where to be found.

Goyong considers running back.

“... Goyong?” his Papa calls out.

Ed’s smile slips and he makes a shooing gesture with his hand.

“Go.” he seems to say. “I’ll be fine.”

Goyong swallows and forces himself to turn away. Hefts his suitcase back up. Takes a heavy step forward.

“Coming, Papa.”

* * *

 

It ends like so:

That night, Ed falls asleep in Goyong’s old bed, Goyong’s basketball nestled in his arms, at around 9.23 PM.

Goyong falls asleep in his fathers’ house, on his childhood bed, a hand pressed over his scars, at around 10.46 PM.

The next morning, Ed stops breathing at around 3.00 AM.

And Goyong wakes up to his basketball, bouncing in a corner, as if newly discarded, at around 3.01 AM.

* * *

 

The next day, the clinic’s maintenance team clear out the room, gather what little belongings still exist within, and lock it.

They entrust inventory to a nurse. Charcoal and a pair of earphones are on her list.

But a sketchpad is not.


End file.
